


In Sickness and in Health

by duesternis



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tenderness, rescue comes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29399082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duesternis/pseuds/duesternis
Summary: Rank and file did them no good out on the ice and shale, so they have a hard time going back to it on the rescue ship.The Lieutenant calls him John and John struggles to call him Graham, so he says Gore.It is always recieved with a smile.
Relationships: Graham Gore/John Morfin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	In Sickness and in Health

**Author's Note:**

  * For [steelythen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelythen/gifts).



> for day 4 of the rare pair week, prompt "after the expedition"
> 
> enjoy the food, Gremmy

His voice is scarred from the cold air, from breathing too much of it, and he cannot sing as well as he used to.  
He tries his damndest on the sail home, to keep the men, the rag-tag rest of them, in as high spirits as he can manage.  
The Lieutenant compliments him, face always cheerful, even as pale as he is now.  
His hair is golden in the flickering oil lamps of the ship and his hands are gentle on John’s.

Rank and file did them no good out on the ice and shale, so they have a hard time going back to it on the rescue ship.  
The Lieutenant calls him John and John struggles to call him Graham, so he says Gore.  
It is always recieved with a smile.

Arriving home jars them all.  
They are broken men, every single one of them, no matter how hale they look. Dead men walking, and some will stay that.  
John hopes he and Gore will fare better.  
They have lost so many already, and they all fear that the dying is not yet done.  
That time and the comforts of home may yet claim more of them for death’s silent ranks.

Together they all set foot on England’s gentle shores and it feels unreal.  
It’s so warm.  
There are people everywhere, and the Captains get carted off.  
Gore recieves a summons, all the Lieutenants they have left, the other men are told not to leave the city until further notice.  
John hangs his head and shuffles his feet.

“Come,” says Gore by his ear, breath warm on his skin and tugs him by the elbow towards a group of people.  
Family, John assumes.  
The woman standing there with a handkerchief pressed to her mouth has Gore’s eyes.  
They hug Gore like they had already thought him lost.  
John can’t blame them.  
Blushes from head to toe when Gore introduces him as his friend John Morfin.  
He can barely shake hands, barely manages a proper greeting.

They all crowd into a hansom and rattle away.  
John holds his little sack of things and doesn’t dare to ask where they are going.  
Gore’s leg presses hotly against his on the narrow bench.  
The rattling of the hansom shakes John’s tender joints, the bones inside of him seeming to clatter loosely still.  
He hurts from the roots of his hair to the left over toes he still has.

Outside an attractive town house they are chased out of the hansom and inside.  
John walks more stairs in the next five minutes than he did the last year combined.  
He collapses on a narrow, soft bed and falls asleep immediately.  
He doesn’t know where Gore is now, but he assumes he’s safe.

Sunlight and birdsong and the smell of tea wake John and he stumbles down the stairs again.  
Finds Gore in a room that is so flooded with light that John has to close his eyes for a moment.  
“John, good morning. Here.” Says Gore and takes his elbow, has him sit down in a stuffed armchair.  
John carefully opens his eyes.  
Squeezes Gore’s hand.  
There’s tea and breakfast on a side table.  
John’s mouth waters, even though it’s just toast and butter, two eggs, the top half of the shell already peeled off.

“Did you sleep well?”  
John nods, takes a cup of tea from Gore’s gentle hands.  
“You?”, he croaks.  
Gore smiles, tilts his head a bit and shrugs. “I had trouble falling asleep. The bed was so soft.”  
He pulls a little face and John laughs, knocks their knees together.  
“Can’t say I miss something digging into my spine, personally.”  
“Toast, John?”  
“Please.”

Gore butters it for him and hands him the plate.  
John balances it on the arm of the chair and finishes his tea before he devours the toast.  
Sitting across from him Gore butters his own toast, cuts it into pieces and then spoons the top off of his egg. The yolk is runny.  
He dips the toast into it and eats it with a little hum.  
John licks crumbs from his thumb and finishes peeling his own egg.  
Eats it whole and Gore laughs.  
Calls him a glutton and butters another piece of toast for him.

They sit, after breakfast, for the better part of the morning. There’s a fire in the grate and Gore cat naps for an hour in his chair.  
John walks the room, counts books on the shelves and looks out of the window.  
His eyes strain with all the different colours, looking for that endless white he’s grown used to.  
Green is a very bright colour John has found.

When Gore wakes John goes up again, washes, puts his other shirt on – the one he hasn’t slept in – and then they go for a walk.  
Gore’s old clothes hang awkwardly off him, but he still looks more the gentleman than John could ever.  
They don’t exactly walk arm in arm, but they walk closely together, sometimes stopping to say something, short of breath.

Back home they have more tea, some sandwiches.  
John hopes he can call this town house home for now.  
He’s too shy, too tired to ask.  
Gore kisses his cheek by the fire, reads him from a book.  
Before dinner he shows John his old sketchbooks, the drawings in it. Tells him of Australia, shows him the scar on his hand again.  
Gripped by sudden bravery John kisses it.  
Gore winds his fingers into John’s beard, his hair.  
Pulls him close.

“John,” he says.  
John swallows. Closes his eyes and leans forward.  
Gore smells of floral soap, tea and lavender, to keep the moths out of the clothes.  
He kisses John carefully, tenderly.

It makes his knees fold, but Gore presses him swiftly against the table, so that John half sits on it.  
Gore’s hands are on his hips and he cannot think.  
“John,” Gore says again and John chokes on his next breath, gasps.  
“Graham,” he manages, hands on Gore’s shoulders.

Gore beams at him, shakes his golden head with a laugh and kisses both of John’s cheeks.  
“John! Oh, John!”  
“Graham,” he says again, softly, into the collar of Gore’s shirt.  
They hold each other until it’s time for dinner.  
They hold each other the rest of the night, so thightly not even wind could get between them.

Gore wakes to soft singing, smiles and nestles close into John’s side.  
John hooks an arm over his shoulders and sings along with the birds outside their window.


End file.
